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“Well, I’d say it was about even. And you sure helped, honey. Thanks again.”
Successfully distracted, Molly leaned over and hauled up the basket they’d filled with mail when they were cleaning up before dinner. “You’re welcome. Want me to sort the mail?”
“Sure.” Bridget was content to sit with her stockinged feet curled under her while her daughter went through the basket. Molly the Mail Girl had been a favorite game of hers when she was really little, and she’d loved to put each item into the right pile and then watch her mother open it all.
Bridget rested her head on the back of the sofa, feeling drowsy and content.
“Bleaggh. This is mostly junk mail.” Molly had learned to tell the difference pretty early. She flipped through it, setting envelopes and catalogs against her mother’s side. “For you, for you, for you. For me. For you, for you,” she said softly. “Okay. Big fat envelope for you, Mom.” She passed it over.
Bridget yawned. “I’ll look at it later.”
Molly poked her side. “No, now.”
“If you insist.” Bridget ran a fingernail along the edge of the manila envelope and slid out the contents: two copies of Good Living, with a note from Gil Bland saying thanks. “Oh, my! Look at that!”
“Let me see, let me see!” Molly scrambled over and nabbed one of the copies. “Wow!”
For the cover, the art director had chosen a close-up of Dotty’s yarns arranged on a shelf. The handspun skeins looked almost like an abstract painting in swirls, with that one strand of yam he’d pulled hanging down like a bright little wiggle of color.
They each flipped quickly to the article.
The first picture, a double-page spread, was of Dotty posed with her flock. Kiwi was by her side, looking very much in charge.
“Check out that dog,” Bridget laughed. “I swear he’s smarter than all of us.”
Grinning photogenically, Kiwi sat proudly, his black-and-white coat brushed to perfection. The sheep were another matter. Their heavy, densely curled wool was matted and muddy, but the springtime setting made up for that. Dotted with tiny flowers and thick with clover, the meadow was idyllic. Dotty’s face, wise and wrinkled, was framed by her long gray braids, and Harry, the photographer, had captured her intelligent, slightly amused expression perfectly.
“He’s a star,” Molly said, excitement making her voice rise a little. “He could be famous.”
Bridget shook her head, smiling. “I think he’d rather herd sheep, honey.” She turned the page. “Oh!”
She and Jonas most certainly did have … chemistry. She remembered exactly how it had felt to have his hands around her waist that day when he’d pulled her close under the fake mistletoe. There had been absolutely nothing fake about that glorious kiss.
“Huh,” Molly said noncommittally. She was studying the picture of her mother and Jonas with an expression on her face that Bridget couldn’t quite read. “Smoochy-woochy.”
“Gil and Harry wanted us to pose that way,” Bridget said hastily. “I—I didn’t realize that Jonas and I were going to look quite that, uh, enthusiastic.”
“It’s okay,” said Molly, not seeming overly concerned. “You’re a lot prettier than that model, Mom.”
Bridget flipped to the photograph her daughter was looking at, one of Mara alone in the nubby sweater the model hadn’t liked. All the same, Mara’s expertise at striking a pose made the sweater look great—and Bridget was very pleased to note that its knitter was mentioned by name in the accompanying text.
The shop looked great too. The custom cabinetry, finished in honey tones, made the yarns and fabrics glow with warmth against the white walls. The Christmas decorations she’d put up with Albert struck just the right quaint note as well. No one would ever know that the shoot had taken place on a warm day in May.
“Where am I?” Molly asked no one in particular, flipping ahead until she yelped with horror. “Oh no! There’s me and that icky boy!”
“Mrs. Dutton’s nephew is a nice kid,” Bridget said, fighting back a giggle. “And you look very pretty.”
“It doesn’t matter!” Molly wailed. “I made sure my lips didn’t touch his face but it looks like they did in the photo! That is so disgusting!”
Jonas cracked an eye. “Okay, I’m awake. What’s all the commotion about?”
Bridget held up her copy of Good Living. “Fame comes at a price. Molly isn’t happy with her picture.”
Molly flopped back on the sofa, hiding her face behind the magazine. “Help me! I will never live this down, not ever! The kids are going to tease me so much, Mom!”
“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Bridget said, trying to sound reasonable when all she wanted to do was laugh out loud. “More likely they’ll think it’s great. And you really do look pretty. That taffeta dress with the velvet bodice was just perfect—”
A long groan from Molly drowned out the rest of Bridget’s reassurances, eventually subsiding as Jonas and Bridget exchanged smiles. Molly lifted the magazine off her face and squinted at her picture. “Do you really think so?”
